Lethal and Loyal
by Beck1
Summary: Ian and his time in the Black Dragons. Feedback highly appreciated.
1. Chapter One

Author's Note: Before I begin this tale, an announcement concerning the fate of Witchblade:  
  
TNT has decided not to renew Witchblade for a third season. Fans are taking action to get Witchblade back on the air. Witchblade Central Station has organized a campaign with a "Wanted Ad" to encourage Warner Brothers to find another network for our show. We need your help! Pick up your pens, your stamps, sharpen your pencils, and write letters to TPTB. Spread the news about the campaign! WE WANT WITCHBLADE! For more information, visit http://www.witchbladecentralstation.com Believe in the Witchblade....join the fight to save our show!  
  
And now the tale begins in earnest:  
  
The canvas sides of the olive drab tent stirred in the breeze, the flapping of a loose tarp against the tent's side, a constant vexation to the otherwise quiet encampment. This time of afternoon was supposed to be spent reading, in quiet contemplation, or in meditation. The temperature inside the tent was at least five degrees cooler than outside, which hovered at the one hundred degree mark, but it was blissfully free of the blowing sand that made its way into every possible opening of one's clothing, stinging and chafing the skin. It had been discovered the first day that they were here that something to cover the face was necessary, much as the locals used the ends of their traditional red-and-white kaffiyehs for such a purpose when caught out in the blowing sand. They had not encountered a true sandstorm yet, but the talk around the camp was that one was due any day. Their mission would continue regardless of the weather though, the two comparatively halcyon weeks they'd had so far would inevitably change as the true nature of their mission approached.  
  
Ian Nottingham lay on his cot, a book held in one hand, his dark eyes scanning the pages intently, a dark triangle of sweat plastering his beige t-shirt to his chest. The words leapt from the pages of the book, painting vivid pictures in his mind. Images of places and people long gone in the conventional sense came to life again, living out their greatest moments as well as their most tragic. One king in particular played a prominent role, striding across a battlefield that had become known as the field of blackbirds. The king's sacrifice for his people had been complete.  
  
The door of the tent banged open and a large dark-skinned man with a shaved head entered. His clothing was the same as the beige t-shirt and desert camouflage pants that Ian wore, plus a jacket and face mask to keep out the sand. He pulled the mask away from his face, "Nottingham.mail call." The man tossed a letter onto Ian's chest.  
  
Ian put down his book, carefully marking his page before doing so. He picked up the letter and turned it over in his hands, studying the envelope. "Thanks Hector. Anything new at the PX?"  
  
Hector Mobius sat down on the cot next to Ian's. "Not unless you want to consider more black boots new." He laughed derisively.  
  
Ian shook his head. "Incredible. Still no desert boots? I thought when we got the fatigues the boots would come soon."  
  
"Nope, still got black boots and OD tents," Hector gestured to the tent walls surrounding them. His eyes lit on the book Ian had been reading, "New book?"  
  
Ian looked up from the letter in his hands, "What? That? No, I have had it a while. Decided to reread it."  
  
Mobius nodded. "Kosovo: A History of its People and Religion. May I borrow it when you are done?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
Mobius reclined on the cot he'd been sitting on, fingering his dog tags idly. "So you going to open that letter?"  
  
"I might." Ian grinned. He knew his delaying tactics were driving his brother-in-arms mad.  
  
"Come on, man. I never get letters from home. I bet I know what's in it too."  
  
Ian fingered the letter, but still did not open it. "You do, do you? Care to make a wager?"  
  
"Pack of Kool-aid?"  
  
"Cherry."  
  
"Deal."  
  
Ian slid a finger under the envelope's flap and carefully opened it. He cast an eye towards Mobius, then slid a folded piece of fine linen stationery from the envelope. As he unfolded the letter, a photo slid out and landed on his chest. His eyes scanned the letter quickly before putting it down.  
  
"I knew it!" Mobius sat up, grinning gleefully. "You owe me Kool-aid, man! Let's see the picture!"  
  
"Damn." Ian lifted the picture and studied it a moment before handing it to Mobius. "You probably would not want orange flavor over cherry?"  
  
"Nope, you said cherry. A deal's a deal." Mobius grinned, his straight white teeth showing, as he accepted the picture. "Whoo.this one is even better than the last one! You are so damn lucky."  
  
"Hmph. Not so lucky." Ian held out his hand and took the picture back as Mobius handed it over. He held it up, scrutinizing it closely. The girl in the snapshot was roughly his age, with honey-brown hair and green eyes. She was dressed in gray sweat clothes, carrying books held close to her chest, her lithe form caught in mid-stride. She looked completely unaware that her photo was being taken. She probably never knew a camera-man was anywhere near her. Irons had enough assets to hire the best surveillance that money could buy.  
  
"How many pictures does that make now?"  
  
"Eight since we've been here."  
  
"Want to give me one?"  
  
Ian flipped the empty envelope at Mobius, "No way." He grinned. "Besides, you just won my last pack of cherry Kool-aid."  
  
Mobius laughed. "She is gorgeous though, seriously. You are so lucky that you're going to have the opportunity to guard her."  
  
"That part I will agree with." Ian smiled at the photo. "She is beautiful isn't she?" He leaned up and swung his feet over the edge of his cot, sitting up. Stretching across, he flipped open his footlocker and took out a red leather-bound book. He carefully placed the photo between the pages of the book and put the book away.  
  
Mobius nodded. "So what was in the letter?"  
  
"Same thing he writes everytime . . . " Ian's voice took on Irons patrician tones as he mimicked him perfectly, "you shall be expected to perform your duties exactly as ordered and should I receive less than perfect reports on your abilities, blah, blah, blah."  
  
Mobius cracked up laughing, "Oh man, that is perfect! You really have him nailed."  
  
Ian grinned then checked the large black rubberized watch on his wrist, "Ready to go? Mess hall should be serving by now."  
  
"Yeah," Mobius stood up, stretching his muscular frame as he did so. "Oh hey, let's not forget that Kool-aid!"  
  
Ian opened the footlocker again and retrieved the last red packet, tossing it to Mobius with a sigh. Grabbing up some garments, he slid into his jacket and adjusted his face mask over his features.  
  
"A bet's a bet, man!" Mobius laughed and clapped Ian on the back before putting his own mask back on over his face.  
  
"I know, I know!" Ian headed out the door, Mobius trailing behind him laughing even as the tent door banged shut.  
  
  
  
  
  
Ian and Mobius went through the line in the mess tent and then found the table where most of the rest of their unit members were seated. The large mess tent was capable of handling about 200 troops at a time.  
  
Mobius nodded in greeting to his comrades seated at the long table and then sat down. "Where's Preston?"  
  
Ian sat down beside Mobius and looked up and down the length of the table. Hewitt Preston, the unit's communications man, wasn't in sight. All the other NCO's were accounted for now that he and Mobius were here. Captain Randall Keane, Rollins, the XO, and Master Sergeant Ramirez were in the mess line still.  
  
"Preston's probably somewhere with a soldering iron in one hand and a motherboard in the other," offered Marshall, his English spoken with a soft French accent.  
  
Ian looked at Phillipe Marshall and grinned. Preston's affinity for all things electronic was notorious.  
  
Mobius laughed, "Hey guess what? Nottingham here lost his last pack of cherry Kool-aid to me." He grinned.  
  
"What did you bet him, Nottingham? That he wasn't an egotistical sonuvabitch?" Takoda Russell asked, automatically ducking out of the way of a piece of bread that Mobius lobbed his way. The young Native American grinned as the bread went sailing past.  
  
The table settled down as the commissioned officers joined the group. Greetings were offered around as the men seated themselves. Captain Keane surveyed him men then asked, "Where the hell's Preston?"  
  
Muffled snickers erupted before Marshall spoke up, "Soldered himself to his computer, Sir." More stifled laughter ensued.  
  
"Very funny, Marshall. Somebody go get . . . " Captain Keane glanced towards the door and saw Preston coming into the tent, "Nevermind."  
  
Jack Rollins, the XO of the unit, spoke, "You want these blokes briefed while we eat, Sir?"  
  
Captain Keane looked around, assessing the amount of privacy offered to his unit. "Quietly, yes."  
  
Rollins waited until Preston had seated himself and then began, "Gentlemen, you know we are here in effort to aid the peacekeeping mission ordered by the Commander-in-Chief." He glanced around the table at each man, his expression saying what his words could not. "As SpecOps, we have a duty to train, advise and assist host-nation military and paramilitary forces. Tonight at nineteen hundred hours we will be embarking on a training mission with one of those groups." Again, Rollins glanced around the table, his gaze indicating to each man present that this was not truly a training mission. "As this is a night-time operation, see to it that you are equipped properly. We will convene at eighteen hundred hours at the BCOC for tacintel. Any questions?"  
  
After a few moments of silence, Ramirez was the next to speak, "As your Operations Sergeant and your Master Sergeant, I'll be briefing you this evening. I want reports from the following prior to that meeting: Nottingham, Op and Intel NCO, Mobius, Weapons NCO, Faris, Engineer NCO, Gahn Shen, Medical NCO, Preston, Communications NCO. Preston try not to be late." Ramirez directed a smirk toward Preston. "Anyone having any questions about our locale see Faris. He is from a neighboring country originally and should be able to provide you with any answers you need."  
  
Samir Faris nodded to Ramirez.  
  
"If I may, Sir?" Rollins looked to Captain Keane who nodded his assent.  
  
Rollins stood, "This base of operations is not solely SpecOps as you know. The regular enlisted men here view you as their superiors, as well they should. However, it has come to my attention that there has been some scuttlebutt that the 81st has some men that are rather envious of our position here. Keep your eyes open as I suspect they will try to pull a stunt of some sort in the near future. That is all." Rollins took his seat and began to eat.  
  
"Just how do we know about the 81st?" Mobius grinned.  
  
Rollins smiled at Mobius, "I believe you have Nottingham to thank for that."  
  
Mobius rolled his eyes, "Shoulda known it." He laughed as did everyone else around him. "So what are they pulling on us?"  
  
Ian spoke up, "I overheard something about taking one of our transports and painting it pink."  
  
"You overheard. Yeah right. You're a sneaky bastard, Nottingham, I'll give you that." Mobius chuckled.  
  
Ian grinned and then took another bite of his food.  
  
Rollins looked down the table, "I want to know nothing about any retaliatory strikes, is that understood? I do want you to act in a manner befitting your unit, however. Make sure those jokers know it is unwise to mess with the Black Dragons." Rollins winked.  
  
"Clear as crystal, Sir. No one from our unit go near that transport today," Lukin spoke up.  
  
  
  
Mobius and Nottingham left the mess tent just in time to see Alexei Lukin, Faris' assistant engineer, run by with a couple of buckets. They glanced at each other, but then continued back to their tent in order to get their reports done.  
  
It was nearing seventeen hundred hours when a loud bang shook the walls of the tent. Grabbing their M-16's, Mobius and Ian rushed out of the tent, only to find two loudly cursing members of the 81st covered in the contents of one of the latrines. Beside them was the transport and several cans of pink paint.  
  
"What the hell happened here?" Mobius bellowed.  
  
"Nothing, Sir. Just a harmless prank gone awry," one of the feces covered soldiers from the 81st replied sheepishly.  
  
Mobius barked, "Well get outta here. Go get yourselves cleaned up. Get away from that transport before you stink it up."  
  
The men from the 81st left just as Rollins and Ramirez came strolling up. Ramirez questioned, "Something wrong here, Sergeant?"  
  
"No, Sir. Think some of those guys from the 81st fell into a pile of dragon shit or something." Mobius grinned broadly. "I believe they were about to mess with our property prior to the . . . um . . . accident."  
  
Ramirez chuckled, "Carry on then, gentlemen." He and Rollins kept walking, heading in the direction of the Base Camp Operations Center.  
  
Ian grinned at Mobius, "Dragon shit?"  
  
Mobius shrugged, his eyes twinkling with mirth, "I suspected Alexei was rigging a booby trap when we left the mess tent. Didn't know it was going to be that good. That boy has potential." He laughed, then glanced at his watch, "Time we went and got dressed. Your report done?"  
  
"Done as it is going to get." Ian nodded and the men turned to go back into the tent.  
  
  
  
  
  
Ian sat on his cot carefully strapping a tanto style survival knife to his lower leg. "Think this mission is the real reason we're here?"  
  
Mobius nodded as he buckled his belt, "I'd bet good money on it." He folded the BDU's he'd taken off and replaced with pitch black clothing and put them in his footlocker and then picked up a black paint stick and tossed it to Ian. "Here ya go. "  
  
Ian caught the paint stick deftly and laughed, "Shouldn't you be using some of this on that shiny head of yours?"  
  
"Very funny o pale one." Mobius put on a black beret with a sarcastic smirk towards Ian.  
  
Ian opened the stick of black face paint and proceeded to smear it across his features before tossing it back and putting on his own beret and pulling up his neck gaiter to cover the lower half of his face. "How's that?"  
  
Mobius nodded at him, "Looks good."  
  
Ian pulled down the gaiter again and picked up a pair of goggles and hung them around his neck. Satisfied with his equipment, he sat down and waited for Mobius to finish getting prepared. As he waited he opened his footlocker and took out the red leather book from within it. He leafed through the pages of the book until he found the photo he was searching for tucked between its pages. He removed the photo and put the book away. He studied the photo a few moments then placed it in the breast pocket of his black fatigues.  
  
"Hoping she'll bring you luck?" Mobius asked, noticing what Ian had done.  
  
Ian nodded. "Just something about her, you know?"  
  
  
  
Mobius and Ian joined the rest of their unit at the BCOC. Sitting apart from their unit was a group of similarly clad men, obviously the local force they were to commence on this joint mission with. They handed their written reports to Ramirez, who then stood up to address the assembly.  
  
"I am Operations Sergeant Ramirez and I'd like to welcome you into our camp. We look forward to working with you in this clandestine and covert operation. Our objective on this mission is to secure a DOD civilian female from the compound of a mercenary group located in neutral territory. The woman is not technically a hostage of this group, but we have significant information from tactical reconnaissance imagery as well as information from acoustical surveillance that her position there is compromised. The woman is central to intelligence gathering." Ramirez paused as the lights were lowered in the room. He clicked a remote in his hand and a picture of a woman in a black garment and veil was projected onto the wall. "This is Cynthia Roberts. She is age 31, 5'4", one hundred four pounds, black hair, brown eyes, medium complexion. She is of Mediterranean descent, but is fluent in several languages including two Arabic languages as well as English." Ramirez pushed the button again and another picture flashed up on the wall. This picture showed Roberts in a sweater and jeans, and her face was showing clearly this time. "This photo is several years old, but allows you to identify your subject's face." He clicked the remote again and a series of buildings appeared on the wall. "This is the compound you will be infiltrating. As you can see there is a high outer wall. We will be air-lifted within a mile of the compound and transport out of the area will be at the same location as the drop point. The mercenaries you will be up against are inconsequential and may negated as you see fit. The safety and extrication of Ms. Roberts is the prime objective." He paused again and the lights came back up. "There are maps and detailed sketches available here for your perusal," he pointed to a small table beside the podium at which he stood. "Now then gentlemen, you have approximately one hour to meet and greet each other as well as exchange necessary information. As a side note, the weather may not be cooperating with us this evening, so be prepared."  
  
  
  
  
  
"The bird is here!" Alexei called out as he reached up and scratched the Chinese dragon tattoo on his neck, making it appear he was petting the creature.  
  
Captain Randall Keane called out, "Let's go men! Are we ready?"  
  
There was a resounding "Sir! Yes Sir!" as the rest of the Black Dragons answered their Captain before putting on their face masks and filing out the door and into the night, the local unit following them.  
  
On the flight line sat a MH-60 Black Hawk, its main rotor spinning, sending stinging sand in every direction. As the bird sat at idle, the unit moved forward, loading into the helicopter single file, greeting the pilot, Michael Coleman, and his wingman, Thomas Quincey, as they did so.  
  
Once everyone was settled in, XO Jack Rollins ordered Coleman, "Take her up." He turned his head to face his unit, "How about a little motivational cadence back there?" He grinned, his face tinted an eerie green by the lights of the Black Hawk's APR 139 warning console.  
  
Hector Mobius' deep voice began the cadence, then was joined by the rest of the unit.  
  
Fast as lightning from the sky Dropping down into the night Breathing fire, dragon's wrath Leaving bodies in my path  
  
M-203 and knife at my side See me comin' better step aside Cause these are the tools that make men die  
  
Oh Yeah Gettin some Blood and guts In the night Blood and guts On the run Hoo hah!  
  
The end of the cadence brought laughter and cheers from the locals. Wingman Quincey called out, "Two minutes till drop zone." 


	2. Chapter Two

Marshall and Gahn Shen, the Medical NCO, stood by the door of the Black Hawk, cables at the ready. As the helicopter dipped and then hovered some fifty feet above the ground, the doors were opened and cables tossed to the ground.  
  
"Hold her steady," Quincey called to Coleman.  
  
"Move out!" came the order from Captain Keane.  
  
Takoda Russell was the first out the door and down the cable, followed by Rollins, Faris and Lukin. Ian and Mobius followed suit, sliding down the cable rapidly and landing gracefully beside their brothers-at-arms. Ramirez, Preston and Captain Keane came down, quickly followed by Marshall and Shen. The local force came down more slowly than the Black Dragons had, but determined not to be outdone slid down without showing a trace of fear. Captain Keane, seeing everyone was accounted for, gave a hearty tug on the cable and then waved up to Quincey who was reeling the cable back in. The Captain split the units into teams of three or four men each, making sure to put at least one of his men on each team.  
  
Ian, Mobius and Preston were teamed with only one of the locals, a man named Zaid. After some last minute instruction from their Captain, they began their mile long run through the night. Zaid kept up with them admirably.  
  
As the compound came into view the team took shelter behind some scraggly brush. Using night vision goggles, Ian surveyed the area. "No patrol visible. The wall appears to be scaleable to the southwest corner. The only other available entrance appears to be the front gates," he whispered.  
  
Mobius nodded from his kneeling position, then whispered, "Can you see any of the other teams?"  
  
Ian replied quietly, "Looks like Faris and Ramirez' team are about 200 yards to our east. No others in sight yet. Preston? Do you have communication with the Captain yet?"  
  
Preston nodded. "Yeah, I just got 2 beeps. Time to move," he related in hushed tones. In the distance the cry of a night bird was audible, a signal between teams. Preston repeated the cry, indicating they were in position.  
  
The team ran at a low crouch to the southwest corner of the wall that Ian had proclaimed scaleable. Mobius gave Ian a place to step by lacing his hands together, then Ian, using Mobius' hands much like a springboard, ran and leapt up, grasping the top of the wall in his gloved hands. He pulled himself up to a squatting position atop the wall and lowered a nylon rope, belaying for the rest of the team.  
  
They dropped silently into the courtyard below, using hand signals to communicate, and moved stealthily towards the main building. As they reached the lighted archway, they encountered the first of the mercenaries. Ian was the first to reach him, and with a seemingly superhuman burst of speed and strength, he snapped the man's neck before there was ever an opportunity for him alert others to the invasion. Letting the man's body drop to the ground, he turned and gave Mobius the hand sign for "first blood."  
  
Zaid watched in amazement at the proficiency of these Black Dragons. He had been told of their prowess, but thought it all propaganda with little basis in truth. Now he knew differently. He dutifully followed Ian, Mobius and Preston through the arch and into the building.  
  
  
  
  
  
The sound of gunfire pierced the quietude from the far side of the complex. Ian and Mobius exchanged glances and then gave each other a few hand signals. Preston made a few gestures as well. Ian nodded to the team and they made their way down the corridor quickly. Ian listened at a door for a moment and then slowly turned the knob. He eased the door open and, stooping low, peered into the room. Seeing it was uninhabited he entered and motioned for the others to follow him. From the sketches of the compounds interior they had been shown, Ian was fairly certain they were on the right track to finding the area where Cynthia Roberts was most likely to be.  
  
A lighted stairwell provided illumination in the room, the soft yellow glow cast into the room causing the dark wood furniture to gleam. The fragrance of incense wafted down from the stairs, indicating the upstairs was populated. Ian gave the signal to move on three, then ticked off three seconds on his gloved fingers. Just as the group started for the stairwell the door burst open and the room was filled with automatic gunfire. Preston, who had been bringing up the rear went down immediately. Ian, one step ahead of Preston, swung around and brought his M-203 up discharging a 40mm grenade at the mercenaries. The report was deafening and when the smoke and debris settled, he could see the doorway was littered with bodies of the mercenaries. Even though his hearing was diminished, he could plainly hear footsteps retreating rapidly down the corridor.  
  
"Shit! Preston was hit!" Mobius was kneeling beside his fallen comrade.  
  
Ian's eyes expressed his concern clearly as they darted between Preston and the doorway, "Is he alive?"  
  
Mobius nodded, "Barely, but yeah."  
  
Zaid finally spoke up, "Leave him, we've got to get out of here now."  
  
Ian rounded on Zaid, the fury in his face causing the smaller man eyes to widen and to take a step backward. "We will never leave a Black Dragon for dead, " he growled, his tone leaving no room for argument.  
  
"Never," Mobius reiterated as he stood, lifting Preston over his massive shoulder easily, "Let's go."  
  
The group made their way up the stairwell, Ian leading the way. Mobius and Preston were next and Zaid brought up the rear. As they came into the brightly-lit room, Ian faced two very scared women huddled in the corner.  
  
"Cynthia Roberts?" Ian asked.  
  
The thinner of the two veiled women nodded her head vigorously.  
  
"Come on, time to get you out of here."  
  
The second woman looked even more frightened at the thought of being left alone. She started speaking rapidly in an Arabic language.  
  
Zaid replied to the woman in soothing tones and she nodded, seeming somewhat calmer.  
  
Cynthia waved to the other woman, "Thank you, Hayat. Be well." She turned back to Ian, "I'm ready."  
  
The group made their way back down the stairs, Ian in the lead again and Zaid right behind him. As they reached the bottom of the stairwell four mercenaries stood waiting for them, rifles pointed directly at Ian's chest.  
  
Time seemed to slow as Ian raised his hands, holding his M-203 aloft. He heard Zaid's sharp intake of air directly behind him. The mercenaries in front of him had no intention other than killing them, he knew. In one fluid motion, Ian spun and pushed Zaid down with one hand, causing a domino effect on the rest of the group. With his other hand he brought the M-203 level and laid down a spray of bullets, dropping two of the mercenaries. He tossed his weapon to the ground and advanced on the remaining two just as one of them opened fire on him.  
  
Ian grasped for the barrel of the rifle the man was holding and pulled the man off balance by it, sending the bullets sailing harmlessly into the plaster-work near the ceiling. He spun the man around using him as a shield and causing him to drop his rifle while pinioning the man's arm up into the small of his back with one hand. His free hand reached down to his leg and retrieved his knife.  
  
Ian's eyes never left the mercenary standing in front of him as he slit the throat of the man in his arms and proceeded to twist the man's head away from his body with a sickening ripping sound. Blood sprayed every direction. Ian's voice was low and dangerous as he said, "That was for Preston." He dropped the lifeless body and stalked toward the terrified man in front of him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The mercenary standing in front of Ian Nottingham raised his hands in a defensive gesture, his rifle dropping uselessly to the floor, and stared at the man dressed in black coming towards him. One look at the face of his opponent told him it was over, the controlled rage and fury bottled within this man was about to break loose and he was the unfortunate target. A muttered prayer to Allah left his lips seconds before the heel of Ian's hand connected with his face, sending the bone shards that used to be the bridge of his nose slamming into his brain.  
  
Ian stepped over the body of the mercenary and continued towards the doorway, stepping over the bodies heaped there and peering out into the corridor. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Gahn Shen's team coming his way. "In here!" he called in a loud whisper.  
  
Shen, the Medical NCO of the Black Dragons, entered the room and assessed the carnage. All the dead appeared to be mercenaries. It was then that he noticed Preston, who was slung over Mobius' shoulder. "Oh no . . .is he still breathing?" Alexei Lukin and a member of the local force entered behind Shen.  
  
Shen and Lukin both looked toward Mobius for an answer.  
  
Mobius nodded and with one massive hand swept the contents of a large table off into the floor, putting Preston down in its place.  
  
Shen stepped forward and examined Preston, noting the large amount of blood matting the man's black clothing to his neck and upper chest. He frowned as he listened to the man's breathing which was producing a gurgling sound.  
  
Ian retrieved his M-203 and then stood by the door, frequently looking both directions down the corridor and occasionally glancing at Cynthia Roberts. It surprised him that she hadn't lost her cool during the gunfire. He hadn't even heard her scream, which he had fully expected. Her eyes met his, peering through the opening between her head covering and her veil, and he turned away.  
  
"What was he hit with?" Shen asked.  
  
Mobius pointed to one of the mercenary's rifles lying on the floor, "One of those, AK-47."  
  
Alexei squatted near the dead mercenaries and began to search them methodically.  
  
Shen pulled his knife and cut away at Preston's clothing. "Shit. He got hit in the neck . . . he's lucky to be alive at all. Somebody find me an ink pen!"  
  
Ian leapt away from the doorway and started going through the items Mobius had knocked from the desk. Zaid knelt beside him and began to help search. A moment later Ian picked a gold and enamel pen from the scattered debris. He held it up, "Will this do?"  
  
"No, find me a plastic one.disposable kind if you can. I need one I can take apart," Shen directed.  
  
Ian slipped the gold pen into the pocket on his sleeve. "Trach?" he questioned as he searched for another pen.  
  
Shen nodded, "Yeah, he's got an obstruction in his airway. Carrying him over the shoulder was all that's kept him alive this far . . . gravity was working in his favor."  
  
Zaid held up a blue plastic pen triumphantly, "Got one!"  
  
Ian walked back to the door, standing on top the bodies there while he kept watch, as Shen worked on Preston.  
  
Shen worked rapidly and soon announced that it was as good as it was going to get. At least Preston was breathing through the makeshift tracheal tube without the gurgling noise he'd been making earlier. Shen gave thanks to Buddha for that.  
  
Mobius hefted Preston back over his shoulder and the two teams, now one group of seven men and one woman made their way down the corridor and out through the archway into the courtyard. The rest of the compound was alive with the sounds of automatic weapon fire and the occasional burst of light could be seen as a grenade detonated. They kept to the shadows at the base of the building, working their way towards the main entrance and the cover of some dense ornamental bushes there.  
  
As they reached the main entrance of the building another team met up with them. Ian glanced at his watch and noted they'd made good time. He just hoped they'd get back to base before Preston's time was up. He updated Jack Rollins on Preston's condition and nodded to the three locals on Rollins' team. Rollins, the XO, motioned towards the gate of the high wall and said, "Faris was hit too, but his wasn't as bad. The other three teams are working their way this direction. Moby, you let Zaid and Jabir carry Preston. Miss Roberts, you hang back with the locals until you see our signal." Rollins looked at the other Black Dragons, "Let's take that gate and hold it open for 'em boys."  
  
Rollins, Ian, Mobius, Lukin, and Shen broke from cover and ran to the gate, catching a group of mercenaries there unawares. The fight was over nearly as soon as it had begun, the element of surprise on the side of the Black Dragons. Lukin fired a green pen flare skyward and moments later the locals and Cynthia Roberts joined them, Zaid and Jabir carrying Preston between them. XO Rollins ordered the locals and Cynthia out of the compound and pointed out to them the area of scraggly shrubs that would be a rendezvous point.  
  
Ian stood beside Mobius as they and the rest of the Dragons with them waited for the onslaught that was about to begin. Takoda Russell and Phillipe Marshall came running from the main entry, a group of mercenaries following close behind them taking potshots at them intermittently. As Russell and Marshall neared the gate they turned on their pursuers, and with the added firepower of their brothers-at-arms eliminated them. Marshall informed Rollins, "Casualty count of two locals, Sir."  
  
"Damn." Rollins pounded his fist against the high wall.  
  
The wait was not long for the remaining two teams. The sounds of weapon fire ceased and moments later Captain Keane and the three locals with him came around the corner at a run. Seconds after that, Faris and Ramirez exited the main building. Keane gave the command to move out and the group left the compound in a low run, making for the rendezvous point.  
  
Once under cover of the indigenous vegetation, and reunited with the locals, Captain Keane radioed for their ride, "We've got wounded and we're not going to make it to the originally agreed upon location. Requesting emergency exfil."  
  
There was a long moment of silence before crackling static came from the radio followed by a friendly voice, "Inbound to your location, please turn on your BEACON."  
  
Gahn Shen removed the BEACON device from Preston's LBE and turned the dial. "It's on."  
  
Within minutes the Black Hawk could be heard and then seen coming out of the star-filled sky. As the helicopter landed, the unit hurried to load Preston aboard as well as Faris and Cynthia Roberts and the locals. As the final Dragon climbed aboard and the door slammed shut, Keane shouted, "Take her up!"  
  
The ground below them got further and further away as pilot Michael Coleman guided the Black Hawk skillfully. The craft shuddered as a loud thump rocked the helicopter. Wingman Thomas Quincey called out, "Shit! They're firing on us!"  
  
Coleman swung the bird around to face the compound. "Correction. . . " he flipped a plastic cover up and pressed the button beneath it sending a Stinger missile streaking towards the compound, "they WERE firing on us."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The MH-60 Black Hawk was damaged but operable. The hit by the mercenaries had put a small hole in the airframe, but having been designed by Sikorsky for heavy battle, the helicopter bore the mark of combat proudly. As it moved through the inky night sky, ominous storm clouds moved in diminishing visibility. Before they reached Base Camp, a sound similar to the hissing of thousands of snakes began.  
  
"What the hell is that noise?" Marshall asked.  
  
Quincey looked over his shoulder, a frown on his face, "Sandstorm starting up. What you're hearing is wind-driven sand hitting us." Soft beeps from the air-to-ground ranging radar punctuated his words.  
  
Coleman nodded, "We're going to have to take her straight into the revetment and get her tied down. We'll off load from there rather than the airstrip." The green LED display in front of him reflected off his visor making him look more robotic than human.  
  
True to his word, Coleman set the helicopter down in the revetment, a special area designed for parking of VTOL aircraft. Three walls formed a protective barrier around the aircraft, the fourth side open. As soon as contact with the ground was made, the doors were thrown open and Preston was handed out of the craft to waiting medical personnel. Faris disembarked on his own, but followed the stretcher carrying Preston to get attention to his own wounds. The remaining Dragons and locals helped secure the helicopter, the stinging sand biting into every bit of exposed flesh it could find. As soon as the bird was declared safe they took Cynthia Roberts and the locals to the BCOC for their debriefing.  
  
The debriefing seemed to stretch out forever. Ian sat beside Mobius, listening but inwardly anxious to get to the field hospital to check on Preston's condition. Cynthia Roberts was standing beside Captain Keane and as Ramirez finished speaking, she took the podium, thanking the unit for their efforts in liberating her from the mercenaries' compound. Ian felt her eyes boring into him as she spoke and shifted in his seat, earning a glance from Mobius. When she was done and had stepped away from the podium, Ramirez reminded them that should anyone ask they had been on a training mission. He made a few more comments then asked that, as soon as the sand storm was over, everyone report back to the BCOC for detail assignments. At last he said the word Ian had been waiting to hear, "Dismissed."  
  
Making their way back out into the stinging wind, particles of fine sand found their way into every nook and crevice of Ian's and Mobius' clothing. The field hospital was only a few hundred yards from the BCOC, but the walk seemed like miles in the storm. When they finally entered the main doors, they had to stop and shake sand out of their garments. Seating himself on a small bench, Ian took off his boots and poured sand out before putting them back on. Mobius followed suit and then they stopped a nurse and inquired about Preston's condition. As she walked away to find out how he was, Ian stood with his beret in his hand twisting it nervously.  
  
Mobius looked curiously at his brother-in-arms, "What is wrong with you tonight? You couldn't sit still during the debriefing and now you're fidgeting. I've never seen you do this before. What gives, Nottingham?"  
  
Ian sighed, "I do not know. It is that woman. I have the distinct impression I have met her before."  
  
Mobius narrowed his eyes at his companion. "Here or in the States?"  
  
"In the States."  
  
Before Ian could say more, the nurse returned smiling. "You friend, Mr. Preston, is resting now. The doctor informs me that he has been stabilized and should recover fully."  
  
Ian and Mobius let out simultaneous sighs of relief. Ian asked, "May we see him?"  
  
The nurse smiled again, but shook her head. "Perhaps tomorrow."  
  
"Yes Ma'am." Mobius nodded and put his hand on Ian's elbow, steering him towards the door.  
  
Ian and Mobius returned to their tent only to find that sand had blown into it and gotten into nearly everything. They were surveying the damage as Alexei Lukin knocked and entered, closing the door behind him, "Hi, mind if I bunk with you guys till this is over?"  
  
Ian and Mobius exchanged glances before Ian answered, "No, that will be fine. What happened with your tent?"  
  
Alexei sighed, his boyish features taking on a disgusted look, "This damn sandstorm. The wind took it, half my stuff is here on my back, the other half on its way to Iraq by now." Lukin dropped the ALICE pack from his shoulders and it landed with a thud. "There are tents down and damaged everywhere."  
  
"I never thought I'd say it, but thank you for insisting we do more than the required number of sandbags, Nottingham." Mobius chuckled.  
  
Ian nodded, then sighed heavily as he discovered his cot was full of sand. "It's going to be a long night . . . what is left of it anyway."  
  
The three men began shaking out bedding and attempting to make the conditions tolerable. As they worked the hissing sounds outside provided a constant background noise to their endeavors.  
  
"If I live to be 100, I never want to see sand again after we leave here," Mobius stated as they finally settled down to sleep.  
  
Ian slept fitfully, images of battles fought long ago playing through his mind. 


	3. Chapter Three

Morning came far too early. Ian opened his eyes, squinting at the filtered sunlight pouring into the tent. Soft snoring told him that Mobius and Lukin were still asleep. He reached for his jacket, which he'd hung neatly before going to sleep, and took the photo of Sara Pezzini from the breast pocket. He studied her features, the close-up picture of her face, allowing him to see just how green her eyes were. He took in the dark sweep of her lashes following the curve of her high cheekbones, the slightly pouty lips, her soft looking skin free of any cosmetics. A hint of a smile crossed his own face as he thought that he must thank her someday for bringing him luck. She would never know exactly what he meant, but he would and that is what mattered. What a beautiful woman. Irons had told him that this was most likely the next true wielder of the Witchblade, the ancient sentient weapon that Irons was in possession of, and Ian could easily see why the blade would choose this woman. Irons had also told him that he would have the task of watching over her, making sure that she used the Witchblade after it had chosen her, and making sure no harm came to her until she learned to wield it. Ian sighed. That was still several years away though, according to the book of prophecies that resided in Irons' mansion. He sat up and carefully put the photo away inside the red leather book in his footlocker where he kept the other photos of her. There were too many things that demanded immediate attention for him to be spending time in contemplation of Sara.  
  
He stood and peered out the door, confirming his suspicions. The sandstorm had subsided and bright sunlight bathed the encampment, making visible the damage that the wind and sand had done during the night. Other units were already moving around, the sounds of morning PT could be heard from a distance. Ian groaned softly. This was going to be a day of backbreaking work, plain and simple. He got his desert BDU from his footlocker and slid into it. Rubbing a hand across his face he detected a shave was in order and took out his shaving kit and removed the offending whiskers. He packed away his black fatigues away before nudging Mobius' shoulder gently. "Wake up."  
  
Mobius opened his eyes and sat up, "Morning already?" He stretched, coaxing life back into his massive frame before beginning to get dressed.  
  
Ian nodded and then nudged Lukin. Alexei muttered something under his breath and then slowly woke up, looking around in confusion a moment before realizing the circumstances in which he had come to sleep in Ian and Mobius' tent. "Oh joy. Morning." He listened intently for a moment. "Sandstorm's over. Great. We get to dig out today. Let me go back to sleep. Tell the Cap I died or something."  
  
"No such luck. Get your ass up." Ian prodded Alexei with his boot, smiling all the while. "Come on, time to get to the BCOC for duty assignments."  
  
"Like we don't know what it's going to be. Move this sand over there to that pile of sand. Good. Now move that sand there to this patch of sand over here." Alexei grumbled, his boyish features taking on a look of disgust.  
  
Ian laughed, "Well perhaps if we hurry, it won't be move that sand out of that latrine."  
  
"Good point." Lukin struggled to his feet and yawned groggily, rubbing his eyes. He rummaged through his pack and changed clothes. "Wish we had time for a shower."  
  
Mid-day found Ian and Mobius shoveling sand and filling sand bags near the BCOC. Ian had gone to check on Preston before beginning their assignment and had been able to visit with him briefly. Now, as they shoveled, the pair discussed Preston's condition.  
  
"Did they say how long he'll be out of commission?" Mobius asked, a questioning look on his face.  
  
Ian shook his head as he bent and scooped up yet another shovel full of sand with his entrenching tool. "No, but I bet he gets a few days R&R once he's released."  
  
"How long since you've had R&R?" Mobius held open a bag for Ian to put sand in.  
  
Ian paused and frowned. "I haven't." He spit sand and grit out of his mouth.  
  
"Maybe we should both request some soon then. I'll ask Captain Keane if we can each get a three day pass." He closed the bag and hefted the heavy bag easily atop the growing stack before picking up another.  
  
They worked without speaking for a while, until Mobius spotted a helicopter coming onto the flight line. He motioned to Ian and Ian looked up just in time to see Ramirez and Keane leading Cynthia Roberts to the waiting craft.  
  
"You ever figure out where you know her from?" Mobius asked in a low voice.  
  
Ian shook his head. "Not yet, but I will." Ian removed his canteen from his belt and opened it, letting a long swallow of orange Kool-Aid flow down his throat clearing away the dust and grit. He passed the canteen to Mobius, who accepted it gratefully.  
  
"She's 31, so she's a little older than you, maybe someone you knew growing up?"  
  
Ian shook his head, "No, Irons saw to it I had very little interaction with other children." A frown marred his features.  
  
Mobius dropped the subject realizing that causing Ian to talk about Irons would spoil his mood. He passed the canteen back after taking a deep cooling swallow.  
  
They began working again, the hot desert sun beating down on their backs causing both men to sweat profusely as they toiled.  
  
The helicopter lifted off, bright sunlight reflecting off the raw metal where the sand storm had worn away bits of black paint.  
  
Ramirez walked past them on his way back into the BCOC, "Chow time boys." He motioned for them to head to the mess tent before continuing on his way.  
  
Ian wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, inadvertently leaving a smear of dirt across his forehead. He leaned back stretching the long muscles of his back.  
  
Mobius watched as Ian started to walk away, "Hey Nottingham, forgot your misery spoon!"  
  
"Hmm? Oh!" Ian turned around and picked up his entrenching tool. "Food on the brain."  
  
Mobius chuckled and clapped Ian on the back. "More like women on the brain. First you stare at those pictures Irons sends you and now you have the one that flew outta here a bit ago on your mind."  
  
"It's not the same, I assure you," Ian shook his head. "Sara Pezzini is beautiful, good, smart, strong . . . "  
  
Mobius interrupted, "You know all that from looking at a few pictures?"  
  
"I do." Ian continued, his face solemn, "The woman that just left here a while ago, while not unattractive and probably very intelligent just does not possess the same qualities as Sara."  
  
Mobius kicked a lump of sand aside with his foot and chuckled, "You got it bad, boy. Let's go eat."  
  
  
  
  
  
Ian pushed a piece of meat that was supposed to be chicken around on his tray with his fork. The conversation going on around him was lost to him as his thoughts dwelled on the woman called Cynthia Roberts. He was certain he had seen her before, perhaps not by that name, but the face was etched in his memory. He had always had a good memory for faces and Cynthia Roberts' face, he was positive, he'd seen before. He tumbled the memory around in his mind, trying to associate names or places to the image of her. It had to have been in the States, of that he was convinced. He was fairly certain it had not been abroad while he had been receiving his education or training. He nudged the so-called chicken further across his tray.  
  
"If you're not going to eat that . . . " Mobius directed his fork towards Ian's tray.  
  
Ian locked the tines of his fork into Mobius', flicking the larger man's fork out of his hand and onto the table, "I'm going to eat it. I was just thinking."  
  
Mobius laughed and retrieved the fork. "You should see if you can get a picture of her at the beach." Mobius winked.  
  
Ian's face darkened as he scowled and stood abruptly pushing his tray away, "If you must know my thoughts were elsewhere. Do not speak of Sara in that manner." Ian strode out of the mess tent, slamming the door behind him.  
  
Mobius stared after Ian a moment, then sighed, "Touchy, touchy." He speared Ian's uneaten chicken with his fork and then popped it in his mouth.  
  
  
  
Ian sat on his cot sharpening his knife with a whetstone, his face still locked into a frown. Each pass of the knife across the stone caused a rasping sound, the metal gleaming in the early evening light. He paused and looked up as Mobius came in quietly.  
  
"Look man, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you, I know how you feel about her." Mobius' hands were outstretched in a gesture of apology.  
  
Ian nodded, but remained silent. The rhythmic hiss of the knife across the whetstone continued.  
  
Mobius sat down on his bunk, opposite Ian. "Nottingham, look at me." He waited until Ian looked up, "You are like a brother to me, closer even. I really am sorry. I'm asking for your forgiveness." Mobius' expression was sincere, his apology genuine.  
  
"I forgive you." The words came out quietly, honestly.  
  
Mobius sat silently for a few moments, as if deep in thought. Finally he said, "I've never seen you this torn up, what's going on?"  
  
"It's Cynthia Roberts. I know I know her, I just don't know where from and it's driving me nuts." Ian punctuated his words by scraping his knife across the whetstone.  
  
"Sounds like it's more than just a misplaced face," Mobius prodded gently.  
  
Ian sighed. "I can't explain it. It is something . . . something important, something I should recall." He frowned, his dark eyes flashing.  
  
"It'll come to you. Just try to put it out of your mind, you're thinking too hard about it," Mobius offered.  
  
Ian nodded, "You're right, of course."  
  
"So how about writing home for a swimsuit pic?" Mobius grinned.  
  
Ian growled and lobbed his pillow at Mobius.  
  
Mobius laughed and held up his hands in surrender as the pillow hit him. "Just joking, man! Just joking!"  
  
Ian smiled. "I know, I know. Actually I do need to write a thank you for the last package of Kool-aid and ask for some more cherry since -someone- won my last pack off of me." Ian got out some stationery and found a pen in the pocket of the fatigues folded neatly in his footlocker.  
  
Mobius laughed, "Fair and square! Oh! I almost forgot, I got three day passes for us both. I felt bad about ticking you off so I went and asked Cap for 'em."  
  
Ian's eyes widened and he paled visibly.  
  
"What? It's just three day passes . . . "  
  
Ian held the gold and blue enameled pen up for Mobius' inspection. Clearly engraved on the clip of the pen were the initials "K. I."  
  
Mobius looked confused, "So it's Irons' pen, what's the big deal?"  
  
"I picked this up at the mercenaries' compound, Moby."  
  
  
  
Mobius let out a low whistle. "So you think maybe that is why you know Cynthia Roberts?" he asked quietly.  
  
Ian thought for a moment, "It's got to be the answer. It would certainly explain how one of Irons' pens ended up in that compound."  
  
"So what's her connection to him?" Mobius' eyes narrowed.  
  
Ian turned the gold and blue enameled pen in his fingers as if it could provide the answers. "I'm not sure. I know he's had transactions with other governments before, but this just doesn't make sense."  
  
Mobius was contemplative, rubbing his hand over his bald head, "Do you think maybe she was making a deal for Irons with those guys?"  
  
"It's certainly possible." Ian stared at the pen.  
  
"If that is the case, then why were we sent to retrieve her?"  
  
Ian's eyes never left the pen as he replied, "Irons could have asked someone to order us to, I suppose."  
  
"He's a civilian, Nottingham." Mobius frowned.  
  
"He's a civilian with lots of people in his pockets. Listen, don't mention this to anyone. Not a soul. This needs to stay between just you and I . . . at least until I have time to think about it."  
  
Mobius nodded. "On to more pleasant topics then . . . where do we want to go on R&R?" He smiled.  
  
"Kuwait City? They've rebuilt a lot already." Enthusiasm filled Ian's voice.  
  
"Sounds like a plan." Mobius grinned. "Let's go hit the showers and then go see Preston. We can get re-hydrated while we're there."  
  
"Best idea you've had all day." Ian picked up a small bucket containing his toiletries. "The shower, not the getting pumped full of saline. I still hate needles." He gave Mobius a fake shudder and a grin. "I'll write that letter to Chef Tomas later."  
  
"You'd better, gonna run out of Kool-aid soon," Mobius poked Ian in the arm with a forefinger, "and if you keep losing bets . . . " he let the sentence trail off with a sly grin on his face, gleaming white teeth shining.  
  
  
  
After showering and getting re-dressed, Mobius and Ian made their way to the field hospital. They were both pleasantly surprised to find Preston sitting up, awake and aware.  
  
"Hewitt!" Mobius called out in greeting.  
  
Preston waved at his visitors, a smile crossing his face.  
  
"How are you doing, Preston?" Ian asked, his face full of concern for his brother-at-arms. He pulled up a metal and plastic chair and sat down. Mobius followed suit.  
  
Preston held up a small chalkboard on which he'd written the words, "Doing fine. How's Faris?"  
  
"He's good, he was back on shovel duty today. Sandstorm nearly buried us. If I didn't know better I'd swear you got hit just to avoid digging."  
  
Preston nodded and erased the small board before scrawling on it and holding it up again, "Cpt. Keane said we got the girl."  
  
Ian nodded. "We did. She thought you were a total wimp for getting hit," he teased.  
  
Preston held up the board again, this time it read, "Eat me."  
  
Ian and Mobius laughed heartily. Ian shook his head, "No way Hewitt, Dragons are tough and stringy." He smiled. "Glad to see you're back to your old self."  
  
Preston nodded, erasing and scribbling furiously for a moment. When he held up the board again it was a request for several computer-related books from his footlocker.  
  
Mobius nodded, "I'll run by and get those for you after we get re-hydrated. We were digging sand during the hot part of the day and Nottingham there's been really testy from being out in the sun."  
  
Preston held up the chalkboard again, aiming it away from Ian. Mobius laughed as he read, "When isn't he?"  
  
"All right, pincushion time." Mobius stood, as did Ian. "You get healed up quick, Hewitt. Need that strong back of yours behind a shovel." He smiled.  
  
Mobius and Ian took their leave of Preston and went to request saline IVs to replace fluids lost during the day. Since they had waited until after the dinner hour, no one was waiting ahead of them. They were taken back fairly quickly and given saline intravenously. As they were leaving, they encountered Samir Faris.  
  
"How's it going Sam?" Mobius asked.  
  
"Just going in to get this checked." Faris pointed to the bandage on his arm.  
  
"Preston was asking about you a bit ago." Ian smiled.  
  
"He's awake then?"  
  
"And asking for computer books." Mobius laughed.  
  
Faris grinned, "He's going to be fine." He waved to Mobius and Ian and wandered inside.  
  
Mobius left Ian to go get Preston's books and Ian went back to his tent. Once he'd kicked off his boots and gotten settled in, reclining comfortably on his cot, he picked up the stationery he had put aside earlier in the day and began composing a letter.  
  
Dearest Tomas,  
  
I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to express my thanks for the package you sent and am in hopes that perhaps you might be able to send another. The weather here is miserably hot and the Kool-aid makes drinking the ungodly amounts of water we have to consume more bearable. I do so miss your culinary creations. The mess tent here is aptly named.  
  
If you could see your way fit to send more books that would be appreciated as well. I have read and thoroughly enjoyed the ones you included with the last package.  
  
Hector Mobius and I have acquired three day passes and I am in high hopes of visiting Kuwait City to see the rebuilding efforts being carried on there. I will bring you home a souvenir, I promise.  
  
My love to you and your dear family.  
  
Sincerely, Your Ian  
  
Ian folded the letter and put it in an envelope before sitting it atop his footlocker. He picked up a book and began to read, falling asleep shortly thereafter with the book resting atop his chest, lightly rising and falling with his steady rhythmic breathing.  
  
Mobius came in quietly and seeing Ian asleep, gently covered him with a light blanket before turning off the light and climbing into his own cot.  
  
  
  
  
  
Bright morning sunlight shone down on the unit as they sang cadence while taking their morning run. Ian sang along, but his mind was on other matters. What type of deal had Kenneth Irons made with the mercenaries? An arms deal? How did Cynthia Roberts fit in? Was she Irons' emissary? She had been covered head to toe in flowing black garments when he had seen her, so he couldn't be certain, but he did not think she had been wearing the blade. Surely he would have sensed that. The blade would have activated to protect her as bullets had flown. No, she could not have been wearing the blade. The unit began the double time part of their run. Ian picked up speed with the rest of the unit, still thinking about the blade. Would Irons have promised Cynthia Roberts a chance to try on the blade? Possibly. The blade would view her as a pretender almost certainly. That did not mean that Cynthia would not remain close, possibly causing problems for Sara in the future. Dominique Boucher had been a pretender, but she remained in New York, a thorn in Irons' side at times. The more people aware of the Witchblade and its powers, the more potential difficulties for Sara when she assumed ownership of it.  
  
The cool down part of the run began. Ian slowed, keeping pace with Mobius who ran beside him. Ian couldn't help but notice that Mobius was wearing a smile, despite the grueling run. When they were dismissed he asked him about it.  
  
"Did you forget we've got R&R? Three days of a real bed, real showers, real food! Our ride will be here after lunch." Mobius looked so happy that Ian almost expected him to burst out into song.  
  
"That's today?" Ian looked stunned.  
  
"What? You forgot?"  
  
"No, I didn't forget, you didn't tell me it was today!"  
  
"Oh." Mobius looked chagrined. "Uh, hey Nottingham? R&R starts today," Mobius tried to keep a straight face.  
  
Ian threw his hands up in frustration. "I can't believe you forgot to tell me."  
  
Mobius laughed, "Well, come on, let's hit the showers."  
  
Lunch was the normal fare, unidentifiable meat, something that was supposed to pass for green vegetables and bread you could play hockey with. Ian barely touched his food, lost in contemplation of the upcoming time away from military life. Mobius had already packed, unpacked and repacked twice. Ian had watched him with amusement while packing his own bag sparsely.  
  
They left the mess tent after being on the receiving end of some good- natured teasing about being slackers and retrieved their bags. The wait for their ride wasn't long and the trip to the bus station was uneventful. Both had enough dinar on them to cover their fares. The hottest part of the day was upon them and the bus station was noisy and hot. They bought their tickets and waited outside under the shelter of a large awning. Local children surrounded them in a matter of minutes and questioned them in the manner of children world-wide. One asked to see their guns, another asked them if they had any candy on them. Mobius answered them rather gruffly, but Ian knelt and spoke to them, teasing them and smiling.  
  
When their bus arrived they bade their small friends farewell and boarded. Mobius took the window seat, promising to switch places before the trip was over. All the windows on the bus were down, despite the sand that came flying in as they traveled, to provide ventilation since the old vehicle didn't have air-conditioning. Ian took a book from his bag and passed the time reading, attempting to ignore the man snoring loudly in the seat behind them. Mobius added to the snoring before long, the scenery failing to hold his attention. Ian chuckled inwardly. What had he expected to see? All there was along the road, other than the occasional broken down truck was sand, sand and more sand.  
  
As Kuwait City came into sight, Ian nudged Mobius awake. He noticed some bombed out buildings, but the re-construction of the city was coming along nicely. The Kuwaitis, living in an oil-rich nation, had spared no expense in rebuilding their capital city to its former glory. They debarked from the bus and as it departed in a cloud of exhaust fumes, found themselves at a bus terminal much nicer than the one they had been at previously. Ian flagged down a cab and gave the driver instructions to take them to a bank before transporting them onward to a hotel.  
  
Once at the bank, Ian accessed the Swiss bank account Irons set up for him and withdrew what he considered to be sufficient funds to spend on their break. The bank personnel were more than happy to help him with the conversion to Kuwaiti Dinar and recommend a good hotel. They assured him if there were anything else they could be of assistance with that they would be more than happy to help him. Ian smiled ruefully. Sometimes being associated with Kenneth Irons had its perks.  
  
As he climbed back into the cab, Ian gave the name of the recommended hotel to the driver. Mobius looked at Ian oddly, but remained silent. When the hotel came into view and the taxi had stopped, Ian paid the driver and collected his bag. Mobius retrieved his duffel bag as well and waited until the cab had pulled away before speaking, "Are you sure this is where we want to stay?"  
  
"Yes, is something wrong with it?" Ian looked at Mobius quizzically, a furrow forming between his eyebrows.  
  
Mobius looked downward, scuffling his feet in the sand, "I don't think I can afford three days of this place."  
  
Ian nudged his comrade and whispered conspiratorially, "You got us the passes, I've got the tab."  
  
Mobius looked up and flashed an ultra white smile at a grinning Ian, "Well hot damn!"  
  
  
  
  
  
The two soldiers walked up the pink marble steps leading into the hotel. The concierge cast a wary eye at them, but smiled a tight polite smile. Ian laughed inwardly and proceeded to inform the man in perfect Arabic that the bank had recommended this particular establishment. The concierge's attitude changed perceptibly and he was suddenly more than happy to find a suite for Ian and Mobius, telling them of the hotel's amenities and how they would find the fully equipped health club, the outdoor swimming pool and the electronic golf simulator to be the best available. He also told them of the hotel's available dining selections including exotic gourmet cuisine including International, Italian, Chinese, Lebanese and Iranian fare, attempting to impress them. Ian thanked the man and accepted two room keys, one of which he passed to Mobius.  
  
The elevator ride was quick and soon Ian and Mobius found themselves in an opulent suite. They dropped their bags almost simultaneously. "Flip you to see who gets to go first?"  
  
"Heads," Mobius nodded.  
  
Ian laughed, "You would choose that." He flipped a coin in the air and deftly caught it. "Tails!"  
  
Mobius grumbled, "Oh all right, I can't win every time I suppose."  
  
Ian got out of his uniform quickly and dashed into the bathroom. The sight before him almost brought tears to his eyes. A huge marble tub, complete with a hand-held shower head sat directly in front of him. Large fluffy towels were piled high on a stainless steel rack and complimentary toiletries sat lined up neatly on the vanity. He quickly turned on the hot water fully and the cold just a bit. He sighed happily as the room filled with steam. He tried to remember how long it had been since he'd had a real bath rather than the pitiful showers at the Base Camp which barely spewed forth enough water to remove the sand from his skin. As the tub neared full, Ian sank down into the steaming water. He turned the faucet off with his feet, not wanting to sit up out of the water long enough to do it properly.  
  
The hot water soothed away any tension that was built up in his body and the fragrant soap he'd found on the side of the tub gave off the scent of almonds as soon as he had unwrapped it. He scrubbed himself thoroughly and then found a tiny bottle of shampoo in the same scent as the soap. He lathered up his short hair, vowing to grow it longer as soon as his tour of duty was over. He didn't bother to shave, taking a vacation from the tiresome task. After rinsing his body with the hand-held shower, he drained the water from the tub and grabbed one of the huge fluffy towels and began to dry himself off vigorously. He wrapped the towel around his waist, tucking it in so it would stay and padded out of the bathroom. Mobius was sound asleep on one of the beds atop the covers. Ian woke him and merely pointed to the bathroom. Mobius was up and out of the room before Ian could get a word out. Ian laughed and stretched out on the other bed, delighting in the wonderful feeling of a real bed. Even the pillows and sheets were soft. He was asleep before the water in the bathroom came on a few moments later.  
  
Ian walked among the trailing ivies and blooming flowers, the sea of green surrounding him almost maze-like. Everywhere he turned there was another colorful blossom. The delicious sweet fragrance of honeysuckle hung in the air, undertones of a more delicate rose scent beneath it. As he walked past a cherry tree, white petals showered down around him. A barely audible whisper reached his ears, "Ian. Ian, come here."  
  
Ian turned in the direction of the sound, brushing up against a growth of forget-me-nots. There in the shade of a huge mimosa tree, its fuzzy pink and white blossoms giving off a sweet odor, sat a figure in the lush grass. Ian walked towards the woman and as she looked up he saw that it was Sara. His heart started to beat wildly and his throat began to feel dry.  
  
"Nottingham, wake up!" Mobius shook Ian, "Nottingham! Rise and shine boy!"  
  
Ian tried to brush Mobius away and return to the dream, "Gowaaaay."  
  
"Nottingham, come on man, real food is waiting!" Mobius shook him again sending any remnants of the dream flying.  
  
Ian sat up slowly, tears threatening to spill over his lashes. He rubbed his eyes quickly so that Mobius would not see. He sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed, rising to a standing position. He got dressed quickly, donning the only civvy clothes he had, a pair of black slacks, a white long sleeve shirt and a black tie.  
  
Mobius was already dressed, in jeans and a knit shirt, and ready to go. He noted Ian's apparel, "The restaurant here have a dress code or something?"  
  
"They probably do, but this is the only civilian outfit I had to bring." He noticed the frown forming on his comrade's face, "We can go to one of the jamaiya and get some other clothes before dinner."  
  
Mobius' Arabic wasn't as fluent as Ian's, "One of the . . . ?"  
  
"One of the malls." Ian smiled, packing away the things he didn't need at the moment. When all was neat and tidy again, they left the room, locking the door behind them.  
  
The architecture of Kuwait City was impressive. Ian and Mobius pointed out different buildings to each other as they traveled along on foot, both marveling at the spirals and spires mixed among the modern structures. They could see the tops of two large minaret-style storage tanks that held the city's supply of drinking water. They passed a mosque before they reached the first mall and Ian stopped long enough to admire the brightly colored mosaic adorning the low wall surrounding it.  
  
The inside of the jamaiya was crowded and although most of the signs were in both Arabic and English, it was difficult to find the type of store they were searching for. At last, as they rounded a corner, they found a men's clothing shop that specialized in European style clothing. They made their purchases and left the store. They found a public restroom and Mobius changed his outfit while Ian added a new pair of loafers and a new jacket to his attire. They exited the restroom looking more like a pair of American businessmen than soldiers. They stopped as a man in a white kaffiyeh was hawking his confections at a kiosque. They watched him spin sugar over the freshly baked pastry which smelled faintly of apples. Ian felt himself begin to salivate and quickly took out his wallet and purchased two of the pastries. He handed one to Mobius and they continued on their way.  
  
"Won't this spoil our dinner?" Mobius grinned, plunging his teeth into the delicacy.  
  
"I don't know about you, but I am hungry enough to eat two dinners, pastry included."  
  
Mobius shook his head and laughed, happily munching away on his pastry.  
  
When they made it back to the hotel, Mobius ran the shopping bag back up to their room while Ian waited in the lobby. Ian stared out the glass front of the hotel, watching passersby, noting the beautiful golden tint the sky was taking on as the sun began to sink. A woman, without the traditional veil and the minimum acceptable head covering, passed near him as he waited and his breath caught in his throat. Her long honey-brown hair swayed as she moved and the silk dress she wore whispered as she went by. Disappointment crept into his heart as she turned to look his direction, no piercing green eyes.  
  
Mobius returned presently and they made their way into the restaurant, reputed to be one of the best in Kuwait City, the aroma of delicious food assailing their senses immediately. They were seated and served drinks quickly. They perused their menus and were told their server would be with them momentarily. As soon as the host had walked away, Mobius pointed to the menu in his hand, "Oh man . . . they serve camel."  
  
Ian nodded, "It's considered a delicacy and is quite expensive."  
  
Mobius shuddered and said in a conspiratorial tone, "They can keep it. I can't imagine eating one of those nasty beasts."  
  
Ian smiled at his friend, recalling Mobius' first encounter with a camel shortly after they had arrived in the region. The beast of burden had decided that Mobius' bald pate must be something tasty and slobbered all over the unwary Mobius' head. Ian stifled a laugh at the memory, "I think I'll order one of these steaks . . . to begin with at least. Real food. What a decision to have to make!" He smiled again.  
  
The pair placed their order when the server came to their table and eagerly awaited the arrival of their dinners while enjoying the rolls and fresh butter that had been placed on their table. Ian looked around the restaurant, the sounds of clinking silverware and china a muffled accompaniment to the sounds of people chatting softly while servers moved quickly and quietly carrying platters of steaming food. It all seemed so civilized and he released a contented sigh.  
  
The food arrived relatively soon and Ian and Mobius dug in, relishing the dishes they'd been served. They chatted about their plans for the next two days as they leisurely ate their meal, a refreshing change of pace from the hectic meals at Base Camp.  
  
When both men were finished eating, stuffed to the point of being miserable, Ian paid the bill and they made their way outdoors to the patio to enjoy the evening air. A couple of stray cats wandered around the edges of the patio, one balancing on the narrow ledge which ran down one side of the structure. Ian smiled at the scruffier of the two felines and reached out a hand toward it. The cat sniffed tentatively at Ian's fingertips, but retreated quickly when it saw there was no food there. Ian chuckled at the cat's antics, "Shy little thing."  
  
The stars were beginning to come out, but they were nowhere near as visible as they were in the desert, the city lights obscuring all but the brightest. Ian rocked back on his heels, staring up into the expanse, "Do you believe in fate, Hector?"  
  
  
  
  
  
"This sounds ominous. Why do you ask?" Mobius stared at Ian, the soft light of early evening the only witness to their conversation.  
  
"She is in my dreams now. I see people on the street and mistake them for her. She is consuming my thoughts."  
  
Mobius barked a short laugh, "Oh man, that's just what being in love is like. There was this girl I knew once . . . "  
  
Mobius continued his tale, but Ian heard none of it. His thoughts were on Sara, the honey-colored highlights of her hair, her piercing green eyes, her creamy skin.  
  
" . . . trust me, you're just in love." Mobius grinned.  
  
Ian nodded, "Perhaps you are right." He sighed.  
  
"Let's go see what the night life here is like. Maybe it will take your mind off her for a while."  
  
Ian and Mobius made a tour of the bars in the immediate vicinity, but Ian did not truly enjoy any of them. He felt restless and out of place in each venue. Mobius on the other hand, was having a grand time. Ian watched as he put the moves on a few women, none of which were dressed traditionally thank goodness, and enjoyed several mixed drinks. By the time the last bar they had visited was ready to close, Mobius was feeling fine. Ian envied Mobius' joie de vivre, but couldn't force himself to act in the same manner. The best he had managed all evening was some convivial chat with one of the women, Mobius had brought to their table. She had lost interest in the conversation fairly quickly though and made her way to greener pastures.  
  
Mobius heard the last call go out and ordered two more drinks. He returned to the table and sat one down in front of Ian, "Come on man, enjoy at least one drink."  
  
Ian smiled ruefully at his friend, Mobius was trying his damnedest to make him have a good time. "You are a true friend, Hector." Ian raised his glass in a salute to his comrade. He sipped at the drink, a concoction of fruit juices laced with what he suspected was rum or vodka.  
  
When they had finished their drinks, Ian and Mobius walked back to their hotel. They saw several more cats along the way, some of which were bold enough to brush up against their legs begging for hand outs. Mobius shooed one away as it twined through his legs, nearly tripping him. "What is it with these damn cats?"  
  
Ian smiled, the liquor flowing through his system causing him to feel relaxed and sleepy, "The Koran prohibits keeping dogs as pets."  
  
Mobius seemed to accept the explanation, but did not stop shooing the cats away as they approached. He'd had enough to drink that it was entirely possible one of the irritating little beasts could cause him to trip and fall.  
  
Neither man managed to get undressed before falling asleep. They had each fallen across their respective beds after reaching their room and locking the door. Only the soft sounds of light snoring broke the silence in the room.  
  
Ian found himself amongst lush flora once again, his eyes immediately scanning the area for the mimosa tree where he had seen Sara previously. Once he found it, he strode towards it purposefully, his feet making no sound as they brushed through the soft grass. At the last moment, he hesitated. What would he say to the woman who filled his thoughts? Steeling his resolve he continued onward.  
  
There beneath the heavily laden branches of the mimosa with its fuzzy sweet blossoms, sat the same woman he had seen here before. She was dressed in a simple white gown, her hair spilling over her shoulder as she turned to regard him. A smile graced her lips as she spoke, "Know me not, Ian Nottingham?"  
  
Ian stepped back, stunned. The face was Sara's undoubtedly, but the woman's manner and voice were different. He knelt before her, "My lady."  
  
The woman laughed lightly, "Do rise. I am Septima Zenobia and you have no need to kneel before me."  
  
Ian's mind raced through the histories he had read, Septima Zenobia had governed Syria from 250-275 AD. During the reign of Claudius II, she had thoroughly trounced Roman legions so badly that they had retreated like whipped puppies with their tails tucked between their legs. It had taken Claudius' successor, Aurelian, nearly four years of constant battle to capture her. Most importantly though, she had wielded the Witchblade.  
  
"Many pardons, my lady. It is just that you bear the face of someone I know."  
  
Septima smiled again. "Someone you know of," she corrected.  
  
Ian nodded. "That is correct, my lady." He did not dare look directly at this formidable woman, he only occasionally glimpsed her with upward glances.  
  
"I have come to you to warn you," she began ominously, "there are those who wish to control you and in so doing control the next wielder of the blade."  
  
"I don't understand my lady, how would controlling someone as unimportant as myself have any effect on the next wielder?" Ian was genuinely confused.  
  
"Do not be concerned with that at the moment, merely know that an event is to take place soon that you must avoid." Septima frowned unsure of how to phrase what she had seen, "Someone wished to pierce you with a lance in order to change your thoughts."  
  
Ian blinked. What was she speaking of? Before he could open his mouth to question her, he felt the world around him shift perceptibly. 


	4. Chapter Four

Bright morning light poured in through the open curtains spilling over the figures of Ian and Mobius. Ian squinted at the intrusion of the seemingly blinding light. His head was throbbing and his mouth was dry. He dropped his head back to his pillow and groaned at the motion. He'd only had one drink. Damn, what had been in it? As the throbbing subsided a bit from him remaining still, he began to recall the odd dream. What had the woman meant? He furrowed his brow, but that caused the pain to return. He sat up and rubbed his forehead before lobbing a pillow in Mobius' direction. "Wake up. Rise and shine."  
  
Mobius opened one wary eye and peered blearily at Ian. "You truly hate me don't you? Could you not just let me sleep?" He slung the pillow back at Ian.  
  
"Nope, I'm awake therefore you are awake. Besides, I want to see the art museum today. And the zoo."  
  
"You are a boring man, Ian Nottingham," Mobius laughed, teasing his friend.  
  
"As if you wouldn't choose a library over an amusement park." Ian harumphed as he ran his hand across the growth of beard on his chin.  
  
Mobius canted his bald head to the side, "You have a point." He smiled, white teeth gleaming in the morning light.  
  
"Speaking of books . . . have you ever read anything about Septima Zenobia?"  
  
Before Mobius could reply, a soft knock at the door signaled the arrival of their room service breakfast. The topic was dropped, forgotten, as they began to enjoy their food.  
  
  
  
The second day of R and R for Mobius and Ian was filled with sight-seeing. Their first stop had been the zoo, which didn't have a whole lot of animals. There were a few ostriches in a cage, some turkeys, and a lone camel in a dark shed. Ian remarked that the rebuilding of the zoo must be coming along slowly, while Mobius noted that there were more trees in the area than they had seen during their entire deployment to the region. A group of boys were playing cricket in one of the open fields and Mobius and Ian had stopped to watch for a few moments before continuing onward.  
  
Their next stop was the Fatima al Masjid mosque in Abdulla Al Salem district. The mosque was a bright and colorful structure, the architecture awe inspiring. They encountered a mobile convenience store operating out of the back of a truck and purchased some drinks to cool themselves, the mid- day heat being oppressive.  
  
The duo then set out to explore the city's museums, the National Museum and the Tareq Rajab Museum. The National Museum, which used to house the Al- Sabah collection, a large and important selection of Islamic art, had been stripped of many artifacts in the previous two years and had just begun reconstruction efforts. Its four buildings and planetarium were heavily damaged, some by fire, and largely empty. Ian could not contain his sadness at the loss of such treasures and a single tear traced its way down his cheek. He had known that the Iraqis had systematically looted the exhibit halls and smashed and burnt what remained, but he had still not expected it to be so bad. Mobius remained quiet as well, a grim look upon his face.  
  
Leaving the courtyard of the National Museum, Ian and Mobius came upon Sadu House, a small museum and cultural foundation dedicated to preserving Bedouin arts and crafts. The house was built of gypsum and coral in the pre- oil era style and had beautiful decorative carving. After marveling a while at the architecture of the building , they entered and were greeted by a friendly proprietor. They each purchased some Bedouin woven goods as souvenirs and Ian bought a small book to send home to Tomas as well.  
  
Next to Sadu house they found Bayt Al-Badr, a small marker out front proclaiming it to be built between 1838 and 1848. The most remarkable thing was the front doors, done in the style of the doors of Old Kuwait. Ian suddenly regretted not bringing a camera, but even so realized the potential problems lugging around a camera could cause.  
  
Continuing on to the Tareq Rajab Museum, a private collection of Islamic art housed in the basement of a large villa, Ian and Mobius were delighted to find its treasures intact. Ian's attention was immediately drawn to an oil painting, hung off to the side, its muted colors probably never garnering it much notice. He stood before the painting, studying it and unmoving, until Mobius nudged him.  
  
"Are you all right?" Mobius said in low tones.  
  
Ian nodded and pointed to the painting, "Do you know who that represents?" The figure in the painting was that of a young woman on horseback. In her hand was a thin sword, a bow slung across her shoulder.  
  
"No, but I would bet a case of Kool-aid you're going to tell me."  
  
Ian smiled thinly, "It is Myrene, Queen of the Gorgon Amazons. She led a cavalry of thirty thousand women and conquered large areas of Egypt and Syria. She was the first great wielder." His voice was filled with awe. He then pointed to the cuff on the woman's wrist, a large red stone resting at its center. "She was buried near Troy, the blade still on her."  
  
Mobius furrowed his brow, "If she was buried with it then how . . .?"  
  
"She was exhumed, presumably by Artemisia the first, a female advisor to Xerxes. Xerxes was the ruler of Persia at the time, modern day Iran."  
  
The curator of the small museum stepped up behind the two men. "You know your history, young man."  
  
Ian winced inwardly, unsure of how much the old man had overheard. He had been so transfixed by the painting he had not heard the elderly curator slip up behind them. The man's English was halting, so Ian replied in Arabic, "Thank you, it is kind of you to say so."  
  
A wide grin spread across the man's wizened face, "You speak Arabic!"  
  
Ian nodded to the man, "My Master had me schooled in several languages. I am certain he would be interested in obtaining this portrait. Is it for sale?"  
  
Mobius moved away, unable to follow the rapid conversation.  
  
The curator narrowed his eyes, studying Ian intently, "Perhaps. Though the price would be rather steep considering the paintings importance to the history of the area."  
  
"Do you have something I may write upon?"  
  
The curator stepped away, returning a moment later with pen and paper in hand. "Here, you may write on this." He handed the paper and pen to Ian, still looking at the younger man curiously.  
  
Ian wrote down Kenneth Irons name and private telephone number including the international dialing prefix. He handed the pen and paper back to the elderly gentleman, "I am positive he would love to hear from you regarding this. He is capable of meeting your price as well, I feel."  
  
The old man smiled and nodded at Ian before thanking him and retreating into another room. Ian looked around and spotted Mobius gazing at a large urn. He tugged at his friend's sleeve, "Time to go."  
  
Mobius sighed and followed Ian outside. Both men were surprised to find how much time had slipped by while they had been indoors. Early evening was upon them and having skipped lunch they agreed to find somewhere to get dinner.  
  
After they had dined at one of the fine restaurants in the Kuwaiti Towers, they made their way back to their hotel. Mobius showered while Ian spoke to the concierge about having the book he had bought for Tomas shipped home. Mobius had just stepped out of the bathroom when Ian returned to the room.  
  
"Do we want to go out again tonight?" Mobius looked at Ian who appeared rather wearied.  
  
"You can if you want, I'm showering and then heading to bed. Long day."  
  
Mobius nodded and twirled his towel, snapping it at Ian's legs, "Wimp." He laughed then admitted, "I'm pretty beat too."  
  
Ian undressed and headed in to shower. Mobius heard the water come on and laid down in the bed, enjoying the feel of the Egyptian cotton sheets against his body. He was asleep before the water ever stopped running.  
  
Ian came out of the bath to find Mobius sound asleep. He moved quietly about the room, careful not to wake his friend, and gathered up clothing that had been tossed down, tidying the room before climbing into bed himself. He laid with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, for a while awaiting the dreams that he knew surely would come.  
  
  
  
He sniffed at the air, he could tell his quarry was near. He could smell the scent of the beast. He gripped the spear in his hand a little tighter and headed into the shallow stream, washing away the scent of his passing. He had not gone far when he spied the tell-tale flash of tan fur in the scrub brush. He hefted the spear aloft and with a quick motion of sinewy arm muscle hurled it directly at his target. The spear hit true and the beast went down.  
  
He began to step towards his kill when a strange thing happened, a black shadow appeared on the sun and began to creep slowly in front of it Fear gripped his heart and he turned and ran towards home, his kill forgotten.  
  
Deep within the recesses of a cave, he found the people he knew and loved huddled around a fire. Some were trembling, others weeping quietly. They had gathered here for safety, obviously, unsure of what was transpiring. The earth shook violently causing a hush to fall over the assembly. When the tremor had ceased there was arguing over who should go out to look. An old man stood and walked toward the exit. There was mumbled approval. If the old man were to die, it would be less of a tragedy than if one of the young people were lost. The young and healthy ones would be needed more to protect the group.  
  
What seemed like hours passed. He sat beside the woman that would be his mate soon, an arm around her, assuring her that everything would be all right even though he wasn't entirely certain of that. At last, the old man returned, much to the relief of everyone. In his hands he held a large rock. He stood in the center of the group near the fire and everyone pressed in close to see.  
  
Looking at the rock, his arm still around his woman, he could see that it was mostly black, burnt looking even. What disturbed him most though was the glowing red center of the rock. It seemed almost alive.  
  
The rock was proclaimed a gift from the gods by the elders and would be placed in a sacred spot. The elders deemed that only a pure woman would be given the charge of guarding the stone. Much discussion went on before the oldest woman in the group came to stand before him and his soon-to-be mate. Sorrow was etched onto her face as she informed them that they would not be given the opportunity to pair as they had chosen. His mate-to-be was now the Guardian of the Stone and would be required to remain pure. Silent tears traced down his cheeks and he removed his arm from about her shoulders and stepped back from her, bowing to her even as tears flowed freely from her eyes and sobs wracked her form.  
  
The unchanging cycle of moon and sun continued. Sunsets and sunrises came and went and the dark shadow that had been on the face of the sun had been gone for many days. He had gone to see her several times, always in the company of an elder, to bring her food and furs. She had changed somehow. He could see it in her eyes. She still looked at him with longing, but there were dark circles under those beautiful orbs as if she had not been sleeping well. She was nervous and jumpy, fear seemingly her constant companion now. He watched her as she ate, longing to hold her, to comfort her in some way, but it was not allowed.  
  
Another cycle of the moon had passed when he found himself washing his body in the stream near the entrance to the caves. Dark fingers of clouds crawled across the moon, a terrifying reminder of the thing that had blackened the sun, bringing the rock and stealing his love. He thought perhaps he would dive down and tie himself to the bottom of the stream, allowing his life to flow away with the cold water. Before he could find something to carry out this plan, his attention was drawn to the cave mouth. His woman, for he still thought of her as such, stood just within the cave, the sacred rock in her hands glowing bright red as if it were on fire. Fearing for her safety he leapt out of the water and ran to her. Surely she would be burnt if she continued to hold the stone as it glowed. He reached her quickly, his long powerful legs closing the distance easily, and reached to take the stone from her before it blackened the flesh of her hands. As his hands closed over the stone he saw what was to be, as did she. Together they cried out. People came running from all directions at the noise. Together they spoke of what the living stone had said.  
  
Ian woke in a cold sweat, his eyes flashing open, terror still gripping his heart. Realizing where he was with relief, he sat up in the bed rubbing his face with his hands. He pulled his legs from the tangled sheets and sat up. Mobius was not in the other bed, but a moment later Ian heard water running in the bathroom and realized where he must be. Today would be the last day they spent in Kuwait City and Ian did not want to waste a minute of it. He rose from the bed and walked across the room to bang on the bathroom door, "Speed it up, baldy!"  
  
"Hold your horses, boy. I'll be out in a minute," Mobius called back through the closed door.  
  
Ian couldn't resist ribbing his pal a little more, "What's taking so long in there? Trying to grow hair?"  
  
The door opened and Mobius appeared in front of Ian. He held a razor in his hand and there was shaving cream still smeared on parts of his head. "Trying to get rid of it, smart ass." He held the razor out to Ian, "Here, make yourself useful and get the back for me."  
  
Ian laughed and took the razor, motioning for Mobius to head back into the bathroom.  
  
  
  
  
  
Bright morning sunlight poured down upon the pink marble steps of the hotel as Ian and Mobius came out the front doors. They hailed a cab and soon found themselves at the front entrance of the largest library in the city. They spent the next few hours browsing the available tomes and reading at the large long tables. A growling stomach alerted Ian to the fact that they had skipped breakfast. Reluctantly they left the library and headed to the Kuwait Towers.  
  
The Kuwait Towers, comprised of three unique towers and the most famous landmark in the city, afforded them a wonderful view of Sief Palace, the Emir's residence. They went down from the two-level observation deck on the upper globe and found the restaurant housed there. After a hearty meal, they caught another cab and went to the northern shore of the city.  
  
Walking along the shore the pair encountered fishermen mending nets and a few kids rollerblading. Several women, covered head to toe in burkhas, sat on a bench watching the children. A speedboat roared out of the harbor, fetching some foul looks from the fishermen. Several old dhows, Arabic fishing boats, bobbed in the wake of the speedboat. A fishing shui sat a little further out in the harbor, two men on it casting a net out into the water.  
  
Ian and Mobius made it back to the hotel a couple of hours before checkout. They decided to make use of the outdoor swimming pool before they had to leave. Making their way down to the pool they found it relatively empty, surprising given the heat of the day. Both men swam several laps, enjoying the cool water. Floating on his back, Ian stared up at the sky. He let his thoughts wander and they eventually came to rest on the possible future Bladewielder, Sara Pezzini. He was almost certain that she would wield the blade now, having seen Septima in a dream and Myrene rendered in oil. They both shared her features much as the frozen body of Elizabeth Bronte did. Thinking of Septima caused him to think of her veiled warning, but the thought was quickly forgotten as Mobius snuck up on him and dunked him. Mobius action started a small water war as Ian was dead-set on revenge. Laughing the pair splashed water in every direction, causing the lifeguard to wonder if there was going to be any water left in the pool.  
  
Checkout time was nearing and Ian and Mobius packed their belongings, both men falling silent as their vacation neared its end, their thoughts turning inward. Ian picked up the tab for their stay, as he had promised he would, and they left the hotel both saddened that their hiatus from their normal routine was over.  
  
Four o'clock found both Mobius and Ian on a bus headed towards base camp. Both back in their BDU's they were surrounded by a mother dressed in a burkha and several small children as well as other passengers, both male and female. Their transport from the bus station, a driver from the motorpool behind the wheel of a jeep, was waiting on them when they arrived.  
  
The trip from the bus station to base camp was uneventful, but upon arrival they were unable to immediately locate any other members of their unit. Finally they decided to visit the field hospital in hopes of finding Hewitt Preston. As they entered, they were greeted by a silver-haired gentleman in a lab coat, "Nottingham and Mobius?"  
  
Both men nodded in reply, exchanging confused glances with each other.  
  
"Excellent, the rest of your unit is already here. You are just in time to begin the scheduled drug therapy," the man smiled, giving the impression that he was eager to treat them.  
  
"Sir? We've been on R&R. What scheduled drug therapy?" Ian looked cautiously at the man.  
  
"The therapy was ordered by the DOD in conjunction with medical technology acquired from Vorschlag Industries. Please go on inside and the nurse will see you settled in." He nodded to each man and took his leave of them.  
  
Mobius and Ian shared another look, this one a look of concern, before entering the second set of doors.  
  
  
  
  
  
Ian watched as the clear fluid collected in the drip chamber of the IV before making its descent down the tubing and into his arm. The needle had been inserted into his arm at the brachial vein and taped in place after the area had been cleaned with alcohol. The needle had pushed some of the alcohol in from the surface of the skin and it burned like mad. To make matters worse, the antiseptic smell of the place was nearly enough to nauseate him. He tried to remain still and just relax until it was over, but there were too many distractions. His mind kept turning back to the subject of Vorschlag Industries and Kenneth Irons. Irons had raised him, provided for him, had him educated and trained in the martial arts. There had always been books to read, language tutors, and fine art to appreciate. All the things that most people would consider part of a privileged life. Most people except for himself. He knew the truth behind how he had been raised. Treated as nothing more than a servant his entire life, here he now found himself subject to another of Irons' whims. He sighed heavily, his eyes traveling to the IV tube again. The needle still stung but it wasn't as bad when it had first gone in. Then it had felt like a sword being plunged into his arm. He hated needles. A sword. The word swirled around in his brain, triggering a memory. There was something he knew he should remember . . . the needle had felt like a sword . . . no, not a sword, a lance.  
  
Ian looked around and, not seeing anyone nearby, sat up quickly. He pinched off the flow from the tubing just behind where the needle entered his arm. His heart was beating wildly and he was in a near panic. Septima had warned him, but he had not listened carefully enough. He wondered how much of the drug was already coursing its way through his body. He looked around furtively again and using his teeth bit a small hole into the tubing. Some of the fluid escaped onto his lips and he spat. Thinking quickly, he doubled the tubing and held it between his teeth until he could reach his canteen. He unscrewed the lid off the canteen and held the tubing so that the liquid would flow into the canteen rather than his arm. He hoped none of the staff would come to check on him anytime soon. As the drug dripped into the canteen he couldn't help but think what a waste of perfectly good Kool-aid. Small sacrifice compared to what he might face otherwise though.  
  
Nearly fifteen minutes had gone by and the IV bag was almost empty. He watched the last of the clear liquid gurgle down into the drip tube and, with a sigh, released the tubing from the position he'd been holding it in. He screwed the cap back onto his canteen and hooked it back to his belt. He thanked his lucky stars they'd been late arriving and hadn't been forced to remove everything before beginning the drug therapy. The resilient plastic of the tubing moved back into shape, the small hole he'd made in it nearly invisible as the tubing straightened out. The last few drops of the drug flowed into his arm just before the nurse came in. He feigned sleep as she removed the needle from his arm and placed a cotton ball over the injection site, holding it in place with a strip of tape. As she left the room, a man was entering with a cart, the same silver-haired man they had encountered earlier. Ian listened to their interchange as they stood in the doorway.  
  
"He has been administered the full dosage of psychotropin in a 1500ml saline IV. He was sleeping as I removed the IV as were some of the other patients."  
  
"Very good. See to the last one then and we'll proceed with the next step."  
  
Ian watched, his eyes narrowed to slits, as the man pushed the cart in and removed a set of goggles attached to a small electronic device from the cart. He felt the man gently nudge him and pretended to awaken. He decided appearing confused was the best course of action.  
  
"Hmmm?" Ian opened his eyes and rubbed them groggily.  
  
The man checked his clipboard against the chart hanging from the end of the bed. "Sergeant First Class Nottingham?"  
  
"Yes, Sir."  
  
"We're going to have you watch a little video. First we'll secure you to the bed in case the goggles should trigger a seizure and then we'll put these goggles," he held up the black goggles with the video screens a few inches from each eye, "on you and get started. Is there anything you'd like to do before we get started?"  
  
It took Ian a moment to realize what the man was asking, but when it sank in he answered affirmatively, "Yes, Sir. I'd like to go relieve myself if it is not a problem."  
  
The man helped Ian up and escorted him to the facilities. Once alone, Ian unscrewed his canteen's lid and poured the contents into the commode. He put the empty canteen back on his belt and then finished up. He was escorted back to his room and then strapped to the bed with thick leather straps. The immobility was annoying, but not nearly as much as the images flashing before his eyes once the goggles were in place and turned on. Tiny ear-pieces transmitted sound to him, the whole experience rather inescapable except by sleep. When he finally did start to nod off, it was sensed by electrodes within the headpiece, which measured brain wave activity, and he was delivered a nasty shock. He quickly decided sleeping was not an option.  
  
The images he was receiving were violent in nature, some sexual, some just barbarous. Scenes of brutality and senseless savagery, some cartoonish even, flashed on the mini twin screens. The narrative that accompanied the images did not really seem to go with such fierce scenarios, but were phrased almost poetically, some philosophically. He felt anger rising within him and fought to hold it down. He found he could unfocus his eyes to avoid watching the vicious scenes, but nothing he tried could drown out the audio portion. He managed to circumvent it some by thinking of song lyrics, but some of the words still leeched in.  
  
  
  
The next few weeks brought daily sessions with the goggles, which Ian had grown to despise. His contact with other members of his unit was limited. Even Mobius kept his distance, seeming to be more inhuman with each passing day. Even though they slept in the same tent, Ian may as well have been alone. The least bit of teasing of his friend only brought confused stares, or worse chastisement in the form of snippets of poetry from the dreaded indoctrination tapes. Ian had finally decided that silence was the best route to take. At least by remaining silent he could have the company of his tent-mate without hearing thinly veiled metaphors. Silence also kept his little deception a secret by disguising the fact that his thought processes were not akin to those of the rest of the unit.  
  
The letters from Irons had stopped coming. Ian was certain that meant that Irons was aware of what had been done to his unit and assumed that Ian would not be in a mind to comprehend or even care what a letter from home would say. He did get a thank you letter from Tomas, but he hid it away in his footlocker and read it when no one was looking.  
  
Depression was setting in at an alarming rate and Ian found himself wanting to sleep much more than normal just to avoid facing what had become of his friends. There had been times during the last weeks that he had sat in the mess tent surrounded by his unit, no one speaking, when he had wanted to do nothing more than excuse himself and go sit in the tent and sob. He couldn't afford the luxury of that even though as it would only serve to draw attention to himself and point out differences that would be extremely costly if noticed.  
  
He felt so isolated and was beginning to think he would reach his breaking point within a matter of days when he accidentally overheard a conversation between two members of the 181st on his way to the latrine. The younger of the two men mentioned something about "Dear Abby boxes." That was all Ian needed to hear before he took off for the mail delivery counter.  
  
He entered the large tent expecting a line. When he found there wasn't one his heart sank, surely if there wasn't a line that meant all the boxes had already been distributed. He sighed and began to head back outside when a voice stopped him.  
  
"Hey Mister? You need to pick something up?"  
  
Ian turned to look at the man standing behind the makeshift counter. The man's hair was stringy blond and well past regulation length and his OD jacket wrinkled and frayed. The spot where his name tag should have been was merely a darker patch of fabric, the name tag missing. He shrugged and replied, "Not really, I was just hoping there would be some "Dear Abby boxes" left."  
  
The older man nodded, his thin lips pursed. "That Abby she does a lot of good." He turned and looked over his shoulder at the many rows of metal shelves. "Let me see if there are any left."  
  
Ian smiled, even though he was certain the answer would be negative. He doubted there would be a single box left as they were highly coveted items. Every time "Dear Abby" ran an article about servicemen stationed abroad and how even though there was not a war going on currently that those men and women doing their patriotic duty deserved as much recognition as those that served during wartime, care packages came flooding in. There were never enough to go around though and only those that showed up as soon as they arrived got one. Ian sighed and started to leave.  
  
"Hey look what I found!"  
  
Ian stopped and turned back to the counter. The man had returned bearing a large box in his arms and smiling, his large eyes twinkling.  
  
'You're kidding?! There was one left?" Ian was dumbfounded.  
  
"It appears so. Looks like this one came out of New York," the man said, inspecting the postmark.  
  
"Thank you so much, Sir."  
  
"Enjoy it." The older man smiled and walked off between the rows of shelving.  
  
Ian took the heavy package and headed back to his tent. Luckily, Mobius was nowhere to be seen. Ian sat on his cot and just looked at the package a few moments before opening it. He could hardly believe his luck. Something from home, New York even. He smiled and used his knife to slit the packing tape open. Lifting the flaps of the box he was delighted to find that someone had packed it with gaily-wrapped presents.  
  
Tearing the paper off the first present he was thrilled to find a paperback novel. It wasn't his normal fare, but new reading material was highly prized. He found himself torn between reading it right then and continuing to explore the contents of the package. He decided on the latter and put the book under his pillow.  
  
The next item he pulled out was deceptively heavy. Casting aside the colorful wrapping paper he found a box containing several packets of pre- sweetened cherry Kool-aid. It was almost as if the person who had so carefully made this care package knew him personally. He simply stared at it a moment before glancing around furtively and hiding it away in his footlocker. Cherry Kool-aid was a cherished item, but pre-sweetened cherry Kool-aid was even better.  
  
The next box he opened was full of homemade chocolate-chip cookies. He could tell they were homemade because the edges were uneven and the bottoms slightly burnt. He smiled. That would make them taste even better, knowing that someone had taken the time and effort to bake them. He bit into one, munching happily, as he opened the next box.  
  
Several packages of instant noodles, mixed in with two cup-of-soup containers were revealed as the box lid was removed. Ian smiled and put them to the side, amazed at how thoughtful the person who had put this package together was. Another small box contained disposable razors and a package of cough drops.  
  
There was only one small box left in the package and Ian was hesitant to open it, thinking perhaps he should save it for when he needed his spirits lifted. Curiosity won out though and he opened the thin flat present to find a package of photographs. He took them out and studied them one by one. His benefactor had sent pictures from around New York City. He put the last picture, a shot of Central Park, back in the package as a tear slid down his cheek. He leaned over and put the photos in his footlocker with a heavy sigh. As he sat back up and began to tidy up the wrapping paper and packaging, a small white envelope slid off his cot and hit the ground. He bent and picked it up, sliding a finger underneath the flap to open it. He took out the letter and read its contents.  
  
Dear Soldier,  
  
I recently saw a letter in Dear Abby's column that prompted me to send this package. I've been alone a large part of my life and I know it must be lonely over there and that you must get homesick. I wanted to write and let you know that your efforts are appreciated and hopefully send a few things you might enjoy. I've included some pictures of my hometown, New York City. Anyway, hope you like the goodies and that you come home safely.  
  
Sara Pezzini  
  
Ian sat looking at the letter disbelievingly, his hands shaking. Was it possible? How many Sara Pezzinis were there in New York? He put the letter into his breast pocket and went to find a phone. Luckily there wasn't a line for the one phone at the PX. He had his international calling card numbers memorized and quickly dialed NYC information. The operator informed him that of the four Pezzinis listed only one was listed as Sara. The other three names didn't even begin with S. He thanked the operator and hung up, still in a mild state of shock. He rushed back to his tent, which was still vacant thankfully, and took the letter out and re- read it. He took the pictures back out of his foot locker and studied them again, this time more carefully. Sure enough, a picture of the Macy's storefront showed a reflection of Sara. He was certain it was her now, her slim figure and long brown hair showed clearly. He put everything away, almost reverently, and simply sat on his cot. His fingertips rose to his lips, he had eaten a cookie prepared by her hands. A smile broke slowly across his face. Come home safely, she had written. He vowed at that moment that he would indeed come home safely. Suddenly he felt as if he could endure anything. He strode out of the tent, his heart lighter than it had been in years. He was certain that somewhere in New York someone very special waited, even if she didn't know it yet. It was only a matter of time and he would do everything within his power to make sure he was at that meeting. He stared into the early evening sky. Here in the desert with very few lights, billions upon billions of stars shone down upon him and he smiled.  
  
  
  
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